


Heart of the Matter

by hibernate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Feelings, Past Relationship(s), Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-08 13:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7760197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/pseuds/hibernate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a scar on Vivienne's leg. Cassandra develops a curiosity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is this artsy~ shadow line on Vivienne's leg in [her tarot card](http://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/dragonage/images/4/4e/Vivienne_tarot.png), so obviously this had to happen. Because scars.

They are in the Forbidden Oasis the first time Cassandra sees the scar on Vivienne's leg.

It is a hot day and they have been walking through the desert long enough that every item in her bags and every piece of clothing on her body is covered by sand. There is a little lake in the Oasis, shallow and warm. Cadash and Sera dive into the water without preamble, splashing water all around themselves like the children they are.

Vivienne, in her wisdom, chooses the opposite side of the lake. Cassandra may not have Vivienne's wits, but she does possess enough common sense to follow.

There is a little waterfall there. Discarding her armor, Cassandra stands under it, clothes and all, letting them soak through before she peels them off, layer by layer. Vivienne removes her clothes with somewhat more care, but then Cassandra does not make a habit of wearing silk. Why anyone would wear such things on a journey through a desert, she cannot say.

Since arriving in Haven, Vivienne has spent her time in the Chantry. Since Redcliffe, Cadash has made no secret of her preference for Dorian, should a mage be needed; crowded together in Haven, it is impossible not to notice when people do not get along. What reasons Cadash may have for inviting Vivienne along this time are her own, and Cassandra has not asked.

There is a thin layer of fine sand covering the back of Vivienne's head. It gets everywhere, the blasted sand, which is why Cassandra had wasted no time rinsing it off. It takes Vivienne a while to divest herself of her corset, shift, and the delicate boots and leggings she wears under her robes. They made camp early and there is no reason to rush, but Cassandra is done and ready to go by the time Vivienne steps her first foot into the water.

On the other side of the lake, Cadash and Sera laugh and giggle uproariously, and Cassandra sits down on a rock, letting the sun dry her skin. It is hard to imagine that the snow still lies thick on the Frostback Mountains. In the water, Vivienne follows Cassandra's example and steps under the waterfall.

The air is fresh here, by the water; warm rather than the oppressive heat of the dunes. Under the waterfall, Vivienne turns her face up towards the falling water, letting the sand be rinsed away. Although they have shared a tent on their journey through the desert, Cassandra has not taken note before of the scar that begins under Vivienne's right knee and runs up along the outside of her thigh, long and curved.

Cassandra's own body is covered by a multitude of marks, criss-crossing much of her skin; a patchwork of imperfectly healed injuries. They are reminders of days she has lived through, too many for each to hold a separate memory. It all blends together, and what remains on her skin matters little, in the end.

Vivienne has only the one scar of such severity as far as Cassandra can see, the rest of her dark skin unmarked and smooth. She is a mage, and Circles are never without capable healers.

The long muscle in Vivienne's thigh that runs under the scar tightens ever so slightly under Cassandra's gaze: a stiffening of her stance. Looking up, Cassandra finds Vivienne's eyes on her.

"Seeker Pentaghast," Vivienne starts, pausing for a breath, one eyebrow raised in question. "Is there something on your mind?"

Caught staring, Cassandra averts her eyes, embarrassment heating her cheeks. "No." 

In the corner of her eye, she can see Vivienne's fingers linger on her leg, resting on the top of the scar with familiar ease, gaze unwavering and as tangible as if it were a solid thread connecting them. Cassandra does not squirm, though the impulse is there. No doubt that is the point.

"You may ask," Vivienne says, "if you are curious."

Her words are spoken with casual indifference, but there is an unspoken challenge in them, as if she wants to know what sort of mettle Cassandra is made of — as if asking a simple question could possibly tell her that.

Cassandra hates these games of words. Turning her head away, tracking the movement of a little bird circling the crown of a tree, she asks anyway. "Was there no one in your Circle who could heal a wound without leaving a mark?"

"Of course there was," Vivienne replies. "A Circle cannot function without healers."

With her head turned, Cassandra can only glimpse the outline of her, under the waterfall, but it is enough to see that her stance has relaxed once more. She does not need to use her eyes at all to know that Vivienne gaze is still firmly placed on her.

"Children and magic make for a somewhat combustive combination," Vivienne continues, and in the corner of her eye, Cassandra sees her run a small piece of soap over her arms, "as I'm sure you know. Scarcely a week goes by in most Circles without someone setting themselves on fire. Why else do you suppose the walls of every Circle are covered with such tacky tapestries, if not to put these fires out swiftly and without the need for magic?"

Her words are absurd. There is no one close enough to hear their conversation, so Vivienne must be ridiculing her only for her own enjoyment. "Foolishly," she says, voice as stiff as her back, "I believed it stemmed from an interest in historical art."

Standing up, her gaze is pulled to Vivienne once more — the water splashes about her shoulders, and her head is slightly tilted as she watches Cassandra. "What I meant to say, Seeker," Vivienne says, "is that I was young once, too, and young people are wont to make foolish decisions."

"Certainly such statements could not possibly apply to you," Cassandra replies, words muttered to match her frown. It is petty, but she does not enjoy being the punchline of anyone's joke.

"You are very kind," Vivienne says sharply, and despite herself, Cassandra has to swallow down a pang of guilt. 

The pause is long, and this time, Cassandra cannot stand to stay still under Vivienne's hard gaze. She turns, snatching up her clothes from the rock and wades through the water, aiming her steps for their camp. Behind her, the sound of the water indicates that Vivienne has resumed her washing regiment under the waterfall.

"Whatever you think of me," Vivienne says, with all the calm in the world, words nearly drowned by the water, "not even I can claim to have escaped childhood without my share of folly."

Cassandra does not stop to acknowledge her words.

 

*

 

After Haven, they share a tent on their journey through the mountains — the four of them, Cadash, Sera, Vivienne and Cassandra, in a tent that would be small for two — but some do not have a shield from the wind at all. 

The walking is done at a hard pace, Cadash taking the lead and scouting ahead, striving forward with the same bull-headed enthusiasm she employs in all stubborn, ill-advised tasks. One of Leliana's scouts — the dwarven archer from Redcliffe — accompanies her most days. The Herald of Andraste is blessed, of course, but it would be to all of their benefit if some of the scout's common sense would rub off on her.

Keeping close to the front, Cassandra watches Sera skip from rock to rock with boundless energy. Vivienne walks with Dorian most of the time, their heads close together as if they are discussing things of unimaginable importance that no one else could possibly understand. Once or twice, the wind has carried past Cassandra fragments of heated words concerning magical theory, and what she presumes are discussions of various items of clothes.

In Haven, Vivienne told Cadash to run to the Chantry, told her she was wasting her time on people who could not be saved, _huffed_ when Cadash said _no_ , and _be quiet_ in no uncertain terms. They had butted heads since the start. It was inevitable. But once they did reach the Chantry, having been delayed at every turn so that Cadash could pluck from their fate the poor souls who had been left behind, Vivienne clasped Cadash's shoulder with unusual fervor, and _thanked_ her.

Perhaps no one heard but Cadash and Cassandra. Perhaps Cadash found it less confounding than she did.

At night, the four of them are squeezed together like peas in a very small pod. By unspoken agreement, Sera and Vivienne sleep furthest from each other, with Cassandra and Cadash in the middle. It is frigidly cold, even with the four of them, limbs tangled together. The rough material of Cadash's wool jacket on one side, contrasting Vivienne on the other side, with her soft leggings and the shift worn under her corset — it is the epitome of pointless impracticality: woven from the finest, sheerest samite, every part of it embroidered with intricate patterns, and meant to be seen by no one.

("She'd blow her nose in a silk handkerchief and toss it by the side of the road," Blackwall had muttered under his breath, once, on the Storm Coast, Vivienne marching ahead of them, chin held high in the rain.

Cadash had been coughing badly, there had been a sheen to Blackwall's eyes that had betrayed his fever, and Cassandra's nose would not stop running. 

"Nah, Madame Fancy-Arse don't blow her nose," Sera had replied, high-spirited and untouchable by the gloom that had infected most everyone else. "Any sickness wanting inside _that_ would get frostbite. And if it wants inside _me_ , I got arrows.")

Sometimes, Cassandra finds herself considering the Forbidden Oasis. 

Vivienne's legs are long, graceful, and always covered. The leggings she favors under her robes are tight, and when Cassandra has found herself gracelessly pressed up against her at night, Cadash's limbs pushing at her back, they have been remarkably soft. Cassandra cannot see the scar through them, but she can picture it running up her leg; she remembers the precise curve of the scar, where it starts and stops, diverts and meanders like a stream in a forest. 

There are enough scars on her own body that she knows how it must feel to the touch.

Sera slips on the ice one day, despite her sure feet, slicing up her arm in a wound that will not stop bleeding through the snow Cassandra packs on top of it. A predictable argument occurs: Vivienne informs her she will heal it with her magic, Sera refuses (at the top of her lungs), Dorian conjures up bandages in a valiant and futile attempt to keep the peace, Cadash tells her she is a spoiled child, Sera stomps her foot (on top of Cadash's foot), Dorian sighs, Vivienne crosses her arms, doom is certain. An affair that might have been over in mere moments stretches out into a never-ending, stubborn battle of wills. 

There is only one solution to the dilemma, of course, and it is spelled _Josephine_.

Their Lady Ambassador weaves a magic no less real than those who draw theirs from the Fade, and her brand of spellcraft is equally inexplicable to Cassandra. She fetches Josephine to wield her word magic, and in the meanwhile she scouts ahead, finding paths that will support the footsteps of a limping Inquisition.

When darkness starts to fall, she retraces her steps until she finds where the others have made camp, and everything is back to normal. Sera is laughing, jumping, running, stopping only occasionally to shoot Vivienne a dirty look — hardly a new occurrence — and the wound on her arm is nothing but a thin, scabbed line that will heal on its own.

Someone has saved her a meal, and Cassandra eats it cold, on her feet. Their tent is already pitched, and when Cassandra enters it to put down her bedroll, Vivienne is there.

No one was able to bring much in the rush when they left Haven. Their belongings are buried under an avalanche now, and though perhaps they might be able to go back, at some point, it seems likely there are few things of value to be found in the wreckage. There is not much Cassandra would miss; a few books of which she is fond, perhaps, but there are bigger concerns.

They are all running ragged in these mountains, boiling snow for water and rationing their food. Vivienne's hair has grown longer than Cassandra has seen it before, enough that there are little waves of curls along her scalp.

"Our Ambassador is a woman of many skills," she says. "I did not realize taming feral urchins was one of them."

Cassandra cannot blame her for that lapse. Leliana had claimed many more or less outrageous things about her Antivan friend over the years — Cassandra had doubted, and subsequently been proven entirely wrong.

"I have come to understand that there are few things she cannot do," she says, rolling her blankets out and sitting down next to Vivienne. "Sera is not as young as she acts. We do not have the time to deal with her childishness."

"She has a healthy fear of magic," Vivienne replies. "Considering the state of the world, she is hardly to blame for holding onto such qualms."

Busy as she is preparing her bedding, Cassandra says nothing at first. Sera and Vivienne seem to bring out the worst in each other, exchanging words only in the shape of sniping and insults. Words in Sera's defense are not what Cassandra expects. "Healing magic is nothing to be feared," she says, in the end.

Vivienne's smile is sardonic. "Of course not. Demons are far too courteous to attempt to influence those using magic in an attempt to heal. They are ever so polite that way."

Straightening her back, Cassandra cannot stop herself from scowling. "That is not what I meant."

"At any rate," Vivienne says, face softening a touch, "I am not a healer. Suspicions are natural."

"I have seen you heal wounds."

"The basic principle is simple. A Knight-Enchanter is expected to know how to repair a wound one might acquire in the heat of battle, if only well enough that one might finish the fight on one's feet."

Cassandra considers that, turns the statement over in her mind, and makes a decision. "Is that where your scar is from?" she asks, words measured and weighed with care. "Your training as a Knight-Enchanter?"

Vivienne's smile is one Cassandra can't quite decipher — it is certainly not friendly, but there is something other than politeness there, a gleam of interest in her eyes, and the weight of her gaze turns heavy on Cassandra's shoulders. "I did not realize you enjoyed guessing games," she says.

"I do not enjoy games of any sort," Cassandra says emphatically. It is bad enough that Sera consistently manages to rope her into partaking in games concerning all manner of silly things. "You offered me the opportunity to ask, before."

Vivienne's face has turned politely blank, in that particular Orlesian way that everyone who spends time there except for Cassandra seems to learn. Recognizing it does not make it any less galling.

"I said that you may ask, yes," Vivienne says, and Cassandra knows the conversion is over. "I did not say that I would answer. But you are welcome to keep guessing. You are a Seeker of Truth, after all."

 

*

 

Cassandra does not keep guessing. In fact, she puts it out of her mind almost entirely, until she gets skewered on a sword in the Emerald Graves. 

Her breastplate was dented when she skidded down a mountain the previous day, and she has not had an opportunity to fix it, far from a settlement with the appropriate tools. It left an opening in her side, and that's where the sword had struck, sliding over leather and piercing it, embedding itself below her ribs. It did not seem so bad, until she could no longer stand.

It is a most unlucky turn of events, and one that ought to teach anyone a lesson about the proper upkeep of one's armor. Clutching her fingers into the grass, Cassandra breathes through the pain as Vivienne unbuckles her breastplate.

"Lie still," she says, hands gentle but voice stern, as she uncovers Cassandra's midsection. 

There is a decent amount of blood involved. Cassandra can feel it pumping out of her at the speed of her heartbeat. Pushing one hand against her side with a steady pressure, Vivienne uses her other hand to pull off Cassandra's gauntlets, studying her hands for a moment. She puts her fingertips against Cassandra's neck next, scrutinizing her face. For what, Cassandra cannot tell. 

"Are you alive?" Cadash asks, poking her foot against Cassandra's arm and scrunching up her freckled nose. "Most of your blood seems to be on the outside."

"I am fine," Cassandra says, making an attempt at sitting up. It is interrupted by Vivienne rather unceremoniously pushing her back down.

Vivienne's sigh conveys many things at once, not the least her impatience for Cadash's sense of humor. "Iron Bull," she says, "would you mind, my dear?" 

The Iron Bull slaps a hand on Cadash's shoulder. "Hey, boss, how about we take a walk? I hear the weather's sunny on the other side of the dead bodies."

Shrugging, Cadash bends to pat Cassandra on the head. "I got arrows to find anyway. Don't die or anything."

With that, Cadash and Bull move away from Cassandra's line of vision.

Vivienne's hands find her side, fingers pushing _inside_. It is bad — the dull, pulsing pain turns so sharp she has to press her eyes closed, hand clutching blindly and ending up clasped around Vivienne's knee. If she had breath enough, she would howl with it. Regalyan rises unbidden in her memory: the tenderness of his hands as he healed wounds she can no longer recall, the green of his eyes containing such warmth when he was healing others. His truly abominable sense of humor.

"Breathe, darling," Vivienne says. "You are turning blue."

Cassandra breathes. Regalyan is dead and gone, and she will not join him. Opening her eyes, she focuses on the blue sky, the little clouds drifting by, the shape of Vivienne's shoulders and neck, the concentration on her face. 

It is all terribly inconvenient; if not for an unblocked sword, they could be on their way, perhaps even making it back to Watcher's Reach with time to spare before dark. Worse is the stern focus Cassandra can read in Vivienne's eyes. It must be bad if Vivienne is concerned — it must be very bad if she does not bother to hide it.

One of Vivienne's hands come up to cover Cassandra's, where her fingers are still digging into Vivienne's leg. Her hand is wet and slick with Cassandra's blood, and Cassandra remembers the scar that runs along her leg. Focusing once more on the blue sky above them, she lets the memory fill her mind, pushing everything else aside.

Her fingers are cold despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, little tingles traveling up her arms, and her legs seem numb and far away. "Was it a sword?" she asks, and the words become clumsy on her lips. 

Vivienne hesitates only briefly. "Only one person know this story," she says lightly. "And he is no longer among us. If you lie still, I might tell you."

"Your Duke?"

"Yes." Vivienne removes the hand covering Cassandra's. "Drink this."

Pushing a flask into Cassandra's hand and directing it to her mouth, Vivienne puts both her hands back on Cassandra's side. The flask contains a potion of elfroot, and it tastes as horrible as always, but it also makes her heart beat harder and stronger, air flowing more easily into her lungs.

"So you will have to kill me," — Cassandra takes a breath, and another — "if you tell me."

"If you keep fidgeting I may not have to."

"So be it, then."

Vivienne sighs, and her knee brushes against Cassandra's hip. "Maker preserve me from self-sacrificing fools."

Cassandra means to protest, but her thoughts have turned slippery and the words seem difficult to shape. She is sweating. _Maker_ , she is soaked in blood and sweat, and she cannot catch her breath.

Pausing for a moment, Vivienne's hands press down harder against her side. "Picture this, if you will: a young mage causing quite the scandal with her choices regarding affairs of the heart. There might be unspoken rules for how the nobility handle their affairs, but that is nothing compared to the limits a mage must conduct herself within."

Vivienne is quiet for some time, then, warmth flowing from her hands into Cassandra's side, while the picture she painted with her words blossom in Cassandra's mind. Her head is spinning with it, vertigo turning the sky into a swirling prism.

Possibly it is the blood loss.

"What happened?"

"You have worked for a long time with our dear Spymaster. I'm sure you're familiar with how Orlesian Bards occupy their time."

Something settles in Cassandra's gut, under the pressure of Vivienne's hands, and suddenly her breathing comes easier. "An assassination attempt," she exhales, a giddy sense of relief rising in her chest. "You were not in your Circle."

"After I came of age, I divided my time between my Circle, the Ghislain mansion, and, of course, Celene's Court."

The pressure in her side eases off. Vivienne's hands come up to cup her jaw, sending warm pulses of magic through her face. It clears her head of the dizzying fog, allowing her to focus. Her body is still dull and heavy, but when she puts her hands on her midsection, there is no wound, only blood and and uncomfortable soreness.

"You stopped the bleeding."

"Of course I did. If I had not, you would be dead."

"Thank you." Sitting up, Cassandra tries to regain her bearings. Cadash and the Iron Bull have sat down at some distance from them, enjoying the early spring sun.

"If you are fit to walk, we shouldn't dawdle." With a tug on her arm, Vivienne hauls Cassandra to her feet. "I've put your insides back in place, but you'll want to see a proper healer when we get back to Watcher's Reach."

Vivienne's robes are stained with Cassandra's blood, and the handkerchief she carefully wipes her hands on is ruined. 

There is little reason for Cassandra to clean herself up — she will need to remove every layer of clothing she's wearing to get the blood out, but she uses the shredded remains of her undershirt to wipe away enough drying blood to get a good look at her side. The deep wound looks like nothing but a shallow cut now; sore and strained, tugging as she moves. 

Vivienne may claim not to be a healer, but from what Cassandra can tell, her skills are more than sufficient. Gaze falling to Vivienne's leg, leggings stained with Cassandra's dark red fingerprints, she wonders how she had not managed to heal the wound there herself without leaving a scar. As evidenced by the lack of stab wound in Cassandra's side, Vivienne is more than capable of healing such injuries. But then, she had claimed to have been young at the time, and perhaps it was much later that she chose to learn such things.

There is something else, though, a thing regarding the shape and structure of scars.

"Your leg was not stitched," she observes. "It would have scarred differently then. There might not have been a healer close by, but if you were at the Ghislain mansion or at Court, how is it possible a surgeon was not called on to stitch the wound together?"

The smile that grows on Vivienne's face is sly, and perhaps a bit surprised. "Very good, my dear."

It dawns on Cassandra quite suddenly, the truth of it. "Every word of that story was a lie," she says, jaw tensing, eyebrows drawing into a scowl.

Vivienne pours water from her canteen over her hands, rinsing off more of Cassandra's blood. "Of course it was," she says, as if such things mean nothing. "Even in my youth, I would hardly let a Bard mark me in such a way. But it kept you distracted, did it not?"

"Does dishonesty come so easily to you?"

Straightening, Vivienne tilts her head, eyes narrowing, assessing. "My task was made easier by you lying still," she says. "And I thought perhaps a touch of romance would make the experience less uncomfortable for you."

The insinuation brings an angry flush to Cassandra's neck. "Mockery does not make me less uncomfortable," she grits out, and she does not wait for Vivienne to reply.

Turning around, she stiffly bends to grab her bloodied breastplate and gauntlets from the ground, and stalks off.

 

*

 

It is an easy walk to Watcher's Reach — at least for those who did not get intimately acquainted with a sword that day. For Cassandra, it is a task requiring all of her concentration.

Sore, sticky and exhausted, she trudges along. Cadash walks with the Iron Bull ahead of her, indulging in a series of increasingly puerile jokes about swords, most of them at Cassandra's expense. Vivienne walks somewhere behind, but Cassandra is not about to turn around to look. By the time they get back to Watcher's Reach, the exhaustion is enough to make her fall into a pile in one of the small huts Fairbanks lets them use.

"Is her face usually that color?" Cadash wonders, leaning over her and scrunching up her nose. "You're paler than Harding and you don't even have any of her pretty freckles."

"Looks a bit pasty," the Iron Bull agrees, casually leaning against the wall of the hut with his arms crossed.

Cassandra rolls over on her side, away from them. "Stop talking about me."

"There's this great soup you make out of nug blood," Cadash supplies. "My brother used to serve it for all major holidays, because there was always some cousin or other getting a finger or ear cut off and needed to get some fresh blood in themselves."

"You were an only child," Cassandra mutters.

"Well, he wasn't my brother, so much as a distant relative to someone a friend of mine met once. She swore it was a true story, though. Anyway, how hard is it to make soup? I'll go and find some nugs."

"Fascinating," Vivienne says, in a tone that conveys everything but. "Leave now."

"Yes," Cassandra says, curling her legs to get more comfortable. "All of you."

Cassandra means to include Vivienne in that, but she does not go with the others. 

"You've lost a certain amount of blood," she says instead, sitting down on her knees next to Cassandra. "I would advise water, as much as you can manage, and rest."

There is a hand on her neck, fingers finding the spot where her pulse beats under her skin. Shoulders stiffening, she huffs out a derisive noise. "It is not the first time I have suffered an injury. I do not require anyone to _fret_ over me."

"I had no intention of doing so," Vivienne says, voice turning harder as she removes her hand. The warm imprint of her fingers does not immediately fade.

"Good."

"I will make sure there is warm water and soap ready for you when you wake. You reek like a slaughter-house."

"I wish to rest now. On my own."

"My intention was not to mock," Vivienne says, and the tone of her voice conveys loud and clear that she does not consider herself to be the slightest bit in the wrong.

Scowling against the wall, Cassandra deliberately does not turn around. "If you wish to make up stories to distract me, do not make me think you are sharing a precious confidence."

"Very well."

Cassandra stares at the wall, listening to Vivienne as she stands, as graceful and smooth as ever. "You need not tell me,"she says, rolling over on her back to make sure her words are received. "I am not a child besieged by curiosity. I will not ask again."

Vivienne stands over her, arms crossed, not bothering to hide the irritation plainly visible in the way she holds herself. Her clothes have not been changed yet, and Cassandra's bloody hand-prints still stain her leggings. 

"How disappointing," she says.


	2. Chapter 2

Spring comes, even to the Frostback Mountains, and the birds return to Skyhold. 

When the Inquisition first arrived it was winter and the only birds seen in the sky were black ravens carrying messages to and from Leliana. There was much to do, then: making sure the fortress walls did not fall down on any unsuspecting Inquisition members, stopping the Empress of Orlais from ending up with a dagger in her back, and keeping Cadash at a safe distance from Skyhold's previous inhabitants. The latter being small and harmless but quite hairy spiders, all of which were understandably adamant about remaining masters of their old home.

Leliana was a menace for those first few weeks. The dust and spiderwebs made Cassandra sneeze and Cadash cough until she refused to sleep anywhere but in a tent in the courtyard. Sera used the general chaos to steal a rather astonishing number of small, fluffy pastries that had been sent as a gift from some frilly Orlesian noble or other, the Iron Bull claimed one of the decrepit courtyard buildings and decided to make a _tavern_ of all things, and Josephine was, as far as Cassandra was concerned, fairly running the Inquisition single-handed.

But that was then and this is now; spring is well on its way by the time they get back from the Emerald Graves, snow melting into puddles of mud and water. The birds return. Little green buds spring out on tree branches. An orange, stripey cat announces his desire to find a mate loudly every evening for a fortnight outside of Cassandra's preferred resting-place in the armory.

Master Dennet requests bigger paddocks for the Inquisition's horses and Cassandra accompanies Blackwall in constructing fences. Horses are, in Cassandra's opinion, a necessity both smelly and cumbersome, but they ought to be able to stretch their legs and enjoy the milder weather as much as any other Skyhold inhabitant.

On her way back up to the fortress after a hard days digging and hammering, Cassandra is intercepted, passing through the gates.

"A word, if you don't mind," Vivienne says, falling into step beside her. 

Cassandra would very much like to continue into the hold, strip off her clothes and put her head in a bucket of cold water, but Vivienne's tone allows for no refusal.

She has been training a group of mages for a little while. Now and then, Cassandra has seen them spar in the distance: spirit blades and staves, sparks where offensive magic collides with barriers. She is not entirely sure how Vivienne was persuaded into lending her aid in this particular endeavor, but it seems quite likely Josephine was involved somehow.

Further up ahead, Vivienne's mages walk up the steps to the courtyard, looking as muddy and weary as Cassandra feels. Vivienne has exchanged the robes she usually wears around Skyhold for one of the many armor coats she wears when she ventures into the field with the Inquisitor; this one is dark blue and white, high in the neck, with silverite plating covering her chest and back, and completely untouched by the dust of the hills.

Cassandra wished she could say the same for herself. She is sweaty and covered in the sort of dust and grime that comes with spending the day hard at work, most likely smelling of horse. They had been quite grateful for their new accommodations.

"I have a task," Vivienne says, as they walk up the steps, "that requires your particular talents."

"My talents." Cassandra tilts her head, considering. "What do you wish for me to do?"

They have not spoken much since the Emerald Graves. The anger had dissipated quickly but there is still a part of Cassandra that resents being deceived, no matter the reason. 

Vivienne, as far as Cassandra knows, does not particularly care. She would have little reason to. In Orlais, the line between truth and lies is infinitely less defined than elsewhere. Cassandra has spent enough time in the company of Orlesians to know it intimately.

Shielding her eyes from the spring sun with her hand, Vivienne nods at the mages walking up ahead. "I've taught them how to rely on their barriers. Tomorrow, I would like for you to remove them." 

"That does not seem very fair," Cassandra says.

"Those who wish to be coddled may train with someone else. My students expect to be challenged."

The sun is sweet on Cassandra's face, nevermind the disheveled state the rest of her is in. "You enjoy this," she says, surprised by her own statement and pleased by the discovery of it.

"Certainly not," Vivienne protests. " What I enjoy is being owed favors, especially by someone with an arm as long as our dear Ambassador's."

A gust of wind hits them, tugging on Cassandra's hair. Sometimes, Vivienne wears perfume, but not today. The scent on the air is from herbs in the oil that she works into her staff to keep the wood smooth and healthy. On days when she's made use of one of her wooden staves, her gloves carry the scent of it. Perhaps her hands do, too.

They have reached the courtyard and the steps that lead up to the great hall; this is where they part. At no point has Vivienne asked a question that requires an answer, but she stops at the steps as if she is waiting. 

"I will assist you," Cassandra says, hesitating for a breath, "if you wish me to."

"Bright and early tomorrow morning. And do try not to let them mark you. I will not have my work undone."

Vivienne lightly touches her fingertips to Cassandra's side, to the precise point of the wound she healed. It has left a scar, hidden under her clothes, and a bruise that has shifted in color from dark purple to green and yellow. It is tender to the touch still, an aching tug on certain turns and twists, and Cassandra twitches at the touch of Vivienne's fingers to the sore spot, a shiver rising up the back of her neck.

Glancing down, Cassandra's gaze falls to the hem of Vivienne's armor coat and the tight, embroidered leggings she wears underneath. 

Her left hand itches.

 

*

 

The problem is, Cassandra has developed an unexpected curiosity.

It is only a scar but Cassandra has memorized the precise curve of it; she knows how wounds heal and the different ways they will mark one's skin. She can imagine how it might feel under her fingers.

She has not asked again. That has not made much of a difference. If only she might find out where it came from, she would be able to put it out of her mind. It might be an amusing pastime for Vivienne, but Cassandra has never had a talent for games. She has not won a single round of Wicked Grace, and if she has succeeded at other card games in the past, she now wonders if those who were her subordinates perhaps allowed her the occasional win in order to placate her temper. Point is, games of any kind are not her forte.

She mulls over this problem for some time. 

Cadash brings the Iron Bull, Varric and Vivienne to Crestwood, and Cassandra wonders and considers. They are to meet Hawke's Warden friend. Vivienne will share a tent with the Iron Bull, as is her wont; her preference runs from Dorian, to the Bull, to Cadash, to Varric, with everyone else clumped into the category _no_. 

Cassandra is not so picky — anyone but Varric will do perfectly fine. Since Hawke showed up in Skyhold, she has taken to picturing Varric's face on her training dummy.

Where Cassandra falls on Vivienne's list of appropriate tent companions, she would not dare to guess, but she is fairly certain she snores less than Cadash. It is the nose, most likely. Sometimes, people will politely refer their great leader's nose as 'distinctive'.

In those times when Cadash is away from Skyhold without Cassandra, she likes to make the journey up to the rookery every few days. There is little noteworthy news pertaining to the Inquisitor that Leliana does not partake in before everyone else. The news delivered during Cadash's current journey has, so far, been somewhat trying.

"A dragon," Cassandra says, rubbing her brow in disgust. "They fought a dragon."

Leliana's smile is blithe, untroubled, utterly detached. She is fully aware of how much Cassandra dislikes that particular expression. "It was giving our soldiers some difficulties. No doubt the Inquisitor considered it a priority."

"No doubt she considered it a pleasant afternoon entertainment."

"Draining the lake disturbed the dragon's territory, yes?" Leliana clasps her hands in front of her. "A problem that must be dealt with."

"She was not _supposed_ to drain a lake."

"Once they stormed Caer Bronach — "

"Another thing she had only the slimmest reason for doing."

Leliana's expression remains bland and indifferent. "Caer Bronach is strategically advantageous."

Cassandra gives Leliana a stern glare, the meaning of which she is perfectly well acquainted with. "You and I both know that is hardly the reason she made that decision."

"Her reasons are nonsensical," Leliana agrees, "yet her actions are not without merit. The Herald of Andraste is touched by divine luck."

"She is touched by _something_ , that is true."

Cassandra has already half-turned, ready to leave, when it occurs to her. In the service of Justinia, they eventually settled into a comfortable routine. Leliana's arrows and daggers were sharp, probably more so than Cassandra ever needed to know of, but for all intents and purposes, Leliana labored in the field of information, while Cassandra's work was accomplished with the aid of brute force.

When a problem that required a more delicate touch manifested itself, there was always an obvious solution in the shape of one crafty hand opposite to her own, albeit one prone to a rather annoying brand of smugness.

"A question," Cassandra starts. "On the gathering of information. There are no doubt various strategies when one navigates affairs of that particular ilk." 

"You are asking about interrogation techniques?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Leliana's smile remains blank and unaffected. "I'm partial to torture."

Many are those who find the Inquisition's Spymaster somewhat intimidating — possibly that is an understatement — but Cassandra has spent far too much time in Leliana's questionable company, not to mention the company of her ridiculous pets, to find her anything of the sort.

Others may disagree. There's a squeaking sound, and a sprawling, flailing body falls from somewhere on the ceiling above to land in a tangle of limbs between them. 

It is, of course, Sera.

"Torture bad!" she squeaks, jumping up on her toes in front of Cassandra. "Maybe try asking nicely first, yeah? I mean, you can barely even _see_ the scratch."

Cassandra, who had been prepared to step between Leliana and Sera should a situation arise, stops herself, eyes narrowing. "What scratch?"

"Uh," Sera says, shrinking somewhat. "Nothing. No one said anything about a scratch."

"What were you doing climbing the ceiling?"

Leliana and Sera exchange a long, deeply suspicious look. "That is neither here nor there," Leliana finally says, taking a step forward so that she is positioned in front of Sera, who seems only too happy to hide behind Leliana's chainmail. 

"'Specially not here," Sera adds, peeking her head out from behind Leliana. "Did you try booze? No one can keep a secret when they're arse over tits. Or, y'know, just make that growly face you do — yeah, that one!"

Leliana is definitely not smiling any longer, but there is the tiniest of twitches in her cheek. If Cassandra did not know any better she might suspect that Leliana is _amused_. The concept is terrifying.

"Cassandra," she says, "if you require assistance in acquiring information, you need but ask. As I am sure you are aware, I have many skills in this particular field. Unless the matter is personal?"

Behind Leliana, Sera whispers: " _Booze_."

"I have no personal matters," Cassandra replies, as Leliana is well aware. After all this time, Leliana knows what she needs to about her and Cassandra does not usually mind.

"A hypothetical question, then," Leliana says, tilting her head. "I understand."

Cassandra dearly hopes she does not.

When Cassandra goes to bed that night, there is a bottle of cheap spirits placed on her pillow with a folded up piece of parchment attached. She recognizes Sera's scrawled letters. Under a remarkably informative (and equally vulgar) illustration, the text reads:

_Arse over tits._  
_(Helping, it's what friends do.)_

 

*

 

The Western Approach is blessedly cool at night — that is to say, until the wind picks up, catching on dust and sand on the ground, and turning the sky dull. There is no drop in temperature when the sun goes down, and the air is thick to breathe. They have found shelter from the wind in a shallow cave — more of an indentation in the rock wall, truly — and the tents will keep at least some of the dust out.

"Dark, dusk, dust," Cole mumbles, blowing on his rumpled sleeve and watching in fascination as a cloud of sand forms in the air.

"How elucidating," Vivienne says, turning to Cadash, who is hunched over by the remains of their fire. "The sky is clear in the east, Inquisitor."

Cadash coughs drily, shaking the sand out of her dark curls, golden earrings swinging. The dust has settled on her face so thickly her brown skin has turned gray, hiding the freckles on her nose and the tattoo on her cheek. "There are mountains in the east."   
"I suppose we will climb them."

"I'm a dwarf. We don't climb mountains, we dig under them."

Vivienne raises an eyebrow, an insult as great as anything. "We'll be sure to leave you with a shovel, then, when the rest of us start climbing."

"You are from the Free Marches," Cassandra points out. "You have spent less time underground than I have."

"If our esteemed Inquisitor wishes to dig her way through a mountain," Vivienne interjects, crossing her arms, "who are we to stand in her way?"

Cadash glares back at her, standing up and crossing her arms right back. " _Tall_. Tall mountain-climbers is what you are. Should've asked Harding to come. She understands my plight."

"I wish you would, dear. After all this time, it would put the rest of us out of our misery."

Cadash’s mouth falls open briefly, then, eyebrows knitting together in a sharp frown. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says, voice a pitch squeakier than usual.

Cole, having torn his eyes from the dust on his hands, watches Vivienne and Cadash under the brim of his hat, head slightly tilted. Cassandra has heard tales of Varric attempting to explain human interaction to him — it would seem he is doing his best to be a good pupil.

"But you like mountains," he says, frowning in apparent confusion.

"Don't ruin my point," Cadash mutters, pouting in Vivienne's direction. 

Noticing Cole's gaze on her, Vivienne narrows her eyes in his direction, and, grabbing her bag, she takes possession of one of their two tents. Coughing again, Cadash climbs into the other one.

Cole puts sand on the dying embers. Without Vivienne there to keep the flames alive on the meager twigs they had managed to find, there is hardly a need. There was not much to eat anyway, though Cadash brewed a strong tea that cleared the sand from Cassandra's airways, leaving a lasting feeling of coolness in her chest. 

Cadash has suffered the worst of them in the dust; for all that she is built as sturdy as a rock, certain conditions will set off a wheezing cough lasting well through the night. It slows their pace. A lesson in patience.

"Everything is gray," Cole says, blowing another cloud of dust from his hands.

"We will walk east tomorrow. The sand will settle."

"Gray dust. Gray skies. Gray eyes."

 _Blue once_ , Cassandra supplies, silently, an image appearing before her mind's eye as clear as if Beatrix had been standing in front of her, _before they paled as her body aged and her mind slipped away_.

It is unsettling when he does this, but sometimes, thoughts spoken aloud have the power to absolve. Only a coward would tremble at facing that which springs from their innermost, secret places. 

"Go on, Cole," she says, knowing there is more. She would tense in anticipation of a blow, but for this, she allows herself to soften.

The look he gives her is full of such tender sympathy and kindness, such pure compassion. "He had gray in his hair the last time," he says. "It made you sad."

"We did not see each other often," Cassandra replies quietly. There is little more to say about it. If she had ever carried regrets, they have ceased to matter. "Make sure the Inquisitor sleeps easily. You must wake me if her breathing gets worse."

Cole's face is somber when he nods, getting to his feet. He takes requests very seriously.

Staring one last time into the hazy distance, towards an invisible horizon, Cassandra makes an attempt at brushing the sand off her face and clothes. It is almost certainly in vain.

Though it offers protection against the dusty air, the tent is uncomfortably warm. A candle burns in the small holder Cassandra likes to bring on her travels. Sometimes she will bring a book, if she can spare the space. Sometimes she simply appreciates the light. She would not have lit it tonight, if Vivienne had not already done so.

Outside, the wind whistles and there are faint voices from the other tent, muted laughter, and a series of coughs. Cassandra swiftly strips down to her undershirt and trousers, sitting down on her bedroll. Resting her hands in her lap, she is still too warm to be comfortable.

Vivienne is lying on her side, eyes trained on the candle. There is a faraway look on her face, in the flickering light, one that Cassandra cannot interpret. In the heat inside their tent, she is wearing only the sheer shift that belongs under her corset and small-clothes. Her bare legs draw Cassandra's attention to the obvious place. 

The scar looks as she remembers it, long and curved; jagged. Some might call it ugly. Cassandra cannot tear her eyes away from it.

She had said she would not ask again.

"Have my legs done something to offend?" Vivienne wonders — a sensible question, considering. Embarrassed by her gawking, her rudeness, Cassandra manages to look away, instead aiming her stare at at a smudge on the tent wall.

"No."

It sounds terse to her own ears. In the corner of her eye, she sees an elegant eyebrow arched, the shadows at the corners of Vivienne's mouth deepening. "I assumed your curiosity had abated."

"I have no wish to play games. It has nothing to do with the state of my curiosity."

Vivienne sits up, leaning on one arm, legs folded to the side. "When I invited you to guess, I did not think you would be so persistent." 

"Unfortunately, it is a trait I have been unable to shake," Cassandra mutters. A dog with a bone would be less stubborn, of that she has been told more than once.

"It is only a scar. You have enough of your own." Vivienne puts her hand on Cassandra's jaw, thumb against the scar that marks her cheek. "You bear them with such dignity they only enhance how striking you are."

Perhaps it is Vivienne's words, or the heat clouding her mind — Cassandra finds herself reaching out in turn, fingers finding Vivienne's knee, grazing the irregularity of her skin, just where the scar begins. Her dark skin is soft, smooth, flawless — the roughness of the scar is such a strange contrast that it, for a moment, turns her mind blank.

Vivienne inhales sharply, tensing, and her eyes, focused on Cassandra's face, seem some shades more intense than usual.

"Bold," she remarks.

Cassandra does not feel bold.

It is good that the light is so dim, because Cassandra's cheeks start to burn in a rush that heats up her face all the way up to the top of her ears. She has imagined this, thought of how the scar would feel under her fingers. Her hand twitches at the thought of what she might do, where her hand might travel; things she may be allowed, if the circumstances were the right ones. Heart racing like a wild thing, her imagination abruptly stops there, as if her mind cannot fathom something beyond it. 

Vivienne breathes slowly, remaining absolutely still. She is not someone to stand by and let others make the decisions, which must mean her lack of action is deliberate and calculated. 

She waits, and Cassandra — does not have the first idea of where to start.

"Is your hesitance because I am a woman," Vivienne says, voice low and velvet-soft, "or because I am a mage?"

"I have been with a mage, before," Cassandra replies, voice a little rough, as if she has not spoken for some time. It is not a secret, though it feels like one on her tongue. 

"What a delight you are." Vivienne smirks, eyes sparkling with mirth, removing her hand from Cassandra's cheek. "So it is my gender, then. Fair enough. A lack of flexibility in these matters is not a thing to be ashamed of. Such rigidity is not to the advantage of those who play the Grand Game, but as you have told me, you have no interest in it."

"My feelings are not so easily categorized."

"If I were a man, wooing you with flowers and poetry, would you feel differently?"

Cassandra rolls her eyes, exhaling in a huff. "I cannot picture you wooing anyone."

"You'd be mistaken, then," Vivienne says. "I may not make a habit of it, but that does not mean I lack the ability."

The idea is absurd. Cassandra will not dignify it with a reply. Her palm is still pressed against Vivienne's leg, and she must do something with her hand or remove it — 

Flushing, flustered, she lets her hand drop from Vivienne's leg.

"It is too warm to think," she mutters, though there is some likeliness to the idea that it is not the temperature creating the worst of her difficulties. "We should attempt sleep."

Rolling over with her back to Vivienne, Cassandra listens to her steady breathing. In the morning, they will go east. Once they have found a path that can be used, they will locate the tower that Hawke's friend described. There is much to do, and she must put this distraction out of her head.

"Let me help make you more comfortable."

A palm is pressed over Cassandra's clothed back, and her undershirt is suddenly chilly against her skin. Fingers skid over her arm next, cooling her skin as they move upwards. A hand finds her neck; fingers cold as if they'd been plunged into snow.

Cassandra breaks out in goosebumps that have nothing to do with the temperature.

 

*

 

"Sweet lyrium-infested arse of a nug, _spider_!"

Cadash springs back from the pile of rubble she was rooting through, throwing a piece of shiny junk to the side, face scrunched up in disgust.

"Did it bite you, my dear?" Vivienne asks calmly, reaching for the hand Cadash clutches to her chest. "Let me see."

Cadash shudders so hard her armor rattles. "Worse. It touched me with its furry little legs."

Stepping up to the discarded item in the sand — a silver charm in the shape of a dragonfly — Cassandra studies the small spider clinging to it. "It is not venomous."

"It doesn't need to be venomous," Cadash grumbles, "it has _legs_."

Picking up the charm and holding her hand against it, Cassandra waits for the spider to climb onto her palm, and then deposits the little creature on a dry twig of deathroot on the ground.

The dust still lays heavy in the morning, but as they have walk east, the air has become easier to breathe. Cadash wheezes like there is a bird stuck in her chest, but she is in good spirits despite it. Or she was, until now.

"Give it here," she says, frowning in the spider's general direction, "so I can clean off the spider footprints."

"It's hardly worth the effort, Inquisitor." Vivienne glances at the item in Cassandra's hand. "It isn't real silver."

It is true, Cassandra realizes. Weighing it in her hands, the balance is off. "She is right. No one will pay worth its weight."

Snatching the charm from Cassandra's hands, Cadash frowns even deeper. "Well, maybe I don't intend to sell it."

"I like it," Cole says, leaning closer to look. "It looks like it wants to fly away."

"Don't we all," Vivienne says with a sigh. "Might we move on, or is there another pile of rubbish you wish to sort through?"

There is a dreamy look on Cole's face as he tilts his head towards Cadash. "She loves dragonflies," he mumbles, tugging at his sleeves. "They make a heart-shape when they mate."

"Cole!" Cadash cries, cheeks hurriedly turning a deep, dark shade of red. "Stop reading — Cassandra's mind!"

"Do not involve me in this," Cassandra asserts.

Shoving the dragonfly charm into her pocket, Cadash marches ahead, face still crimson. Cassandra follows. The others trail behind, at a distance. 

"Her thoughts are quiet," Cole says behind her, a sense of curious wonder evident in his voice. "I can barely hear them."

Vivienne, in response, makes a derisive noise. "Of course — she's young and in love. Don't worry, demon, such things never last. You'll hear her loud and clear again, probably as soon as she realizes she lacks the courage to actually give her little scout friend that worthless trinket."

Cole is quiet for a moment. "I understand more than the things that hurt now, even if I can't hear it."

"Lovely. The demon thinks it's a boy."

" _Peonies_ ," Cole says softly. "I like the way they smell."

Cassandra smells nothing but sand. They are in a desert, and the only thing growing as far as the eye can see are dry bushes and the occasional tuft of elfroot, neither of which carry a scent.

" _Out_ of my head," Vivienne snaps behind her, words clipped.

She is angry, it is obvious in every syllable. They do not get along. Cole is invasive and Vivienne is unreasonable; Cassandra does not have the skill to mediate.

"You are very loud, Vivienne. Your thoughts want to be heard."

"Then perhaps you should keep a wider distance."

The sound of Vivienne's footsteps abruptly stops, and when Cassandra glances behind her, Vivienne is standing still, arms crossed over her chest, as she waits for Cole to walk ahead. Cassandra stops, too.

"Go on," she tells Cole. "Make sure the Inquisitor does not fall off another cliff."

Vivienne says nothing, at first, watching Cole scurry after Cadash with a look on her face that Cassandra cannot interpret. Nothing about Vivienne is straightforward, not even something as simple as anger. 

Keeping her arms folded, her fingers are tight on her sleeves, shoulders raised, and rather than acknowledge Cassandra's presence a few steps away, she is looking up at the sky. 

There is a splash of purple on her eyelids, matching the dark color of her robes. Face tilted up towards the sun, Cassandra studies her profile; the curve of her forehead, the tip of her nose turned up, full lips pursed as if she is choosing her words carefully.

"Your... curiosity," she says, gazing towards the horizon. "Let us put the matter to rest. There is no great mystery hidden behind the mark on my leg. It was a simple cut from a knife acquired during my early training. It scarred, because the mage who sealed the wound was not a proficient healer."

It cannot be a lie this time. It is too plain, too simple to be anything but the truth. Cassandra exhales, letting the idea settle. The mystery, the heart of the matter, is unraveled and with that, her curiosity must be sated. 

Shielding her eyes from the sun, she squints towards the horizon. "Thank you for telling me." A beat, and then she mutters, "I dislike games."

When she looks back at Vivienne, her gaze has turned towards Cadash and Cole, ambling towards the dunes. "I know you do," she says.

Running a hand over her sleeve, removing some invisible speck of sand, Vivienne starts walking again, striving forward in the sand, eyes trained on the pair in the distance. The sand is loose and hard to walk in, but her steps are light and sure, back straight.

Cassandra remains, watching Vivienne make her way forward.

It occurs to her that perhaps the mystery did not compose the entirety of her fascination.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: This chapter contains a discussion about self-harm.

Cadash returns from the Fade and immediately sets off on an excursion prompted by Josephine — south, into the Frostback Basin.

The wildlife makes the area cumbersome, to say the least. The forward scouts have constructed camps in the huge, ancient trees to get around the problem, allowing for rest when it is needed. At least until the big, colorful birds that seem to be everywhere start shrieking. Not even Leliana's birds are wont to make such a ruckus, and of course they seem to choose all the times when Cassandra is in dire need of her focus to make the worst and loudest of their noises.

Her task is doomed to fail anyway. The parchment she uses is becoming increasingly wrinkled and unreadable every time she crumples it up in disgust and throws it away, only to fetch it again and start over. She was not with Cadash in the Fade, which makes it all the more difficult, but what happened there must not be forgotten.

A bird shrieks like an angry chicken outside the tent, twice, thrice, four times, five times — crumpling the parchment once more into a small ball, Cassandra throws it into a corner of the tent and stomps out. The bird, startled by her exit, flaps its wings and lifts from the top of the tent to sit on a higher branch. Cassandra huffs, sending it a sharp glare, to which it does not respond.

On the other side of the ledge, Cadash is leaning her crossed arms against the rail, while Sera balances on top of it.

"She's afraid of heights," Cadash says mournfully, resting her chin on her arms.

Sera, who is anything but wary of heights, lifts up a foot so that she is balancing on only one leg. It looks precarious and ill-advised, like most things Sera does. Cassandra ought to have learned by now to take it in stride.

"Yeah," Sera says. "I know. Was there, wasn't I? It was worse than that time Solas fell into a bush of rashvine nettles."

Cassandra does not know what they are talking about, but the ruined parchment in her tent makes her hands itch for the weight of a sword and shield. "We are wasting time," she snaps, striding over to them and crossing her arms in impatience. 

"Maybe you're wasting time," Cadash replies with a deep sigh, showing no sign at all of readiness to go. "I'm mourning."

"Listen to this," Sera says, swaying dangerously on the ledge — Cassandra has to grab the ragged hem of her tunic to keep her from falling — "an arrow with a _fist_ instead of the sharp thingy! For when you want to punch someone in the face but from, y'know, far away."

She makes no comment on Cassandra saving her from certain death — then again, her skills seem to include always landing on her feet, so perhaps such things mean nothing.

"And who would you use this ingenious invention on?" Cassandra wonders.

"Her Worshipfulness Madame Arse-Britches, of course. She was _nice_ to me. I think she did it on purpose."

"We were all concerned about you," Cassandra says, "when you fell into the Fade. I am certain that includes Vivienne."

Sera snorts. "She was 'concerned' I'd turn into a demon-ghost and haunt her, 'cause I _would_. I'd make her trip and fall splat-flat on her face."

Cadash sighs again, bone-deep and pitiful. "There were spiders in the Fade. And here. There are spiders _everywhere_."

At some point, Cassandra has lost track of where the conversation is going. "Who's afraid of heights?" she asks, attempting to navigate through the maze of words.

"You wouldn't understand," Cadash replies. "It's a matter of the heart."

There is a sound in the foliage above, a splatter of raindrops, and Cassandra flinches. She had expected weather like the surrounding parts of the Frostback Mountains — dry and mild — but the Basin has turned out to be much warmer than that, and plagued by heavy rainstorms. Dressed with different expectations in mind, she has already lost count of the number of times the rain has soaked her to the skin.

"I have a heart," she says sharply, eying the sky through the tree branches. 

"Is it made of little swords?"

The assumption is hardly different from what most would think, but it still raises her heckles. Her back is straight as she half-turns, keeping herself from saying something she would certainly come to regret.

There is a hut on a lower ledge; through the window, Cassandra can glimpse Vivienne's silhouette, elegant and assured. She had not wished to come to the Basin, but Cadash insisted. According to Sera — who might, in fairness, not be the most trustworthy of informants — it involved begging.

"Is yours made of little arrows?" she finally says, turning back to Cadash.

"Yes," she answers with another self-pitying sigh. "Broken ones."

The little drops of water from the tree tops make good on their promise: a light shower of rain falls, turning, within moments, into a miserable downpour.

"If your broken arrow heart can manage a walk," Cassandra says, wiping her brow, "we have a bear to find."

 

*

 

They do not find the bear that day, or the next, or the one after that.

Their progress is at a stand-still, much like the situation with Cassandra's attempted chronicle of what transpired in the Fade. 

"One would think they've already had their fair share of running today," Vivienne sighs, when, after another day of useless meandering, Sera drags Cadash along to a lower part of the tree camp, a gleam in her eyes that rarely means good things. 

Cassandra intends to keep her sword close at hand until they either return or the sounds of disaster reach the tree tops. "Youth," she mutters. "Children are often inflicted with restless legs."

"They are not as young as that." Vivienne rests her hands on the railing, looking out over the forest. "As I recall, when _you_ were that age, you had already been made Right Hand of the Divine."

"And I may have considered myself at the height of my wisdom at the time, but that did not make me any less of a child. Do you know what sort of unwise mission they have set out for?"

"Sera assured me it was a matter of great importance concerning the Inquisitor's breeches. I believe she thought I would find her words scandalizing. She forgets, sometimes, that I have spent half my life at the Empress's Court."

Cassandra groans, putting a hand over her face. "No doubt they will be less exuberant when the sun rises."

Vivienne says nothing for awhile, gaze still on the lush trees around them. If she is waiting for Cadash and Sera, Cassandra suspects she will have to be patient. One of the annoying birds shrieks somewhere above, and not for the first time since arriving in the Basin, Cassandra considers learning how to shoot a bow.

"You still favor your right side," Vivienne says, interrupting Cassandra's thoughts. "You should have informed me the wound has not healed as it should."

Surprised, Cassandra runs a hand down her side, to the spot that remains tender and stiff, where the blade sliced her open in the Emerald Graves. "It has healed enough."

"It is somewhat insulting that you would not give me the chance to correct my mistake."

With an impatient sigh, Cassandra removes her gauntlets, keeping them in one hand and taking a hold of Vivienne's wrist with the other, placing Vivienne's fingers against the side of her breastplate. She cannot feel the touch, through armor and padding, but Vivienne moves her hand until her palm is pressed over the exact spot of her injury. Perhaps one does not forget the location of a wound one has stitched together with magic from one's own fingertips.

The bruise has healed, leaving only the jagged line of the scar under her ribs. It has already faded some — more than some, and less than others. Regalyan took pride in leaving hardly a mark behind. After the Conclave, she touched the invisible places where his magic had healed her and found herself wishing he had not been so meticulous.

A chill travels through her gut as Vivienne draws on the Fade. Her hand, still clasped around Vivienne's wrist, twitches, tightening, and for a moment, she can feel Vivienne's pulse beating against her fingers, through the thin fabric of her sleeve. Closing her eyes, Cassandra stands absolutely still.

It is a foolish notion. She is too old to be rendered senseless and stupid.

Cassandra considers, and reconsiders. An image rises, unbidden, behind her eyelids, of the dead and what they would have to say about such ill-advised business. "A woman," Regalyan might say. The idea would probably amuse him, after all their years together and apart. "And another mage, Cassandra? Is it our talented hands?" _It is certainly not your way with words_ , she might reply.

But the dead are gone and they do not speak.

Time runs out, and there is no point in dwelling on regrets. Regalyan never asked for more than what little she could spare, for a greater part of someone sworn to a duty. He was an Enchanter and a talented healer, and though he sometimes spoke of missing her after a long absence, his time and commitment was spoken for as well.

Vivienne removes her hand, and Cassandra lets her own fall to her sides, opening her eyes to find Vivienne with an irritated crease between her eyebrows. 

"There is a scar, inside," she says. There is a very particular tone to her voice. "You did not see a healer as I suggested.”

"I had no need of it."

"You _did_ have need of it, as I knew you would. If I had known you had no intention of caring for the wound, perhaps I should have let you bleed."

"It is nothing that bothers me."

Vivienne crosses her arms — she is taller than Cassandra and does not need to turn her nose up to look down at her, but she does so anyway. "It's going to rain," she says. 

She is not wrong; the forest around them has gone silent, as it does before one of the area's sudden skyfalls. It is only moments before it starts: the sky opens and rain falls heavy over them. It soaks through her clothes quickly. A shimmering barrier has sprung up around Vivienne — and around her alone, while Cassandra remains in the rain. The pettiness of the gesture speaks volumes about her opinion concerning Cassandra's lack of care for her instructions.

Watching Cassandra get wet seems to balm some of Vivienne's irritation. Huffing out a sigh, Cassandra rubs a hand across her face. Raindrops drip off her eyelashes and the tip of her nose, tickling a path down her jaw.

Cassandra decides abruptly that Cadash and Sera will be perfectly fine on their own. No beasts with their wits about them would be roaming around in such a torrential downpour anyway. "You may continue to scold me when it is no longer raining," she mutters, turning on her heel. 

Their tents are another few ledges higher up in the tree tops, and by the time she gets there, her boots are making squelching sounds with every step. 

If she had known this area would have a penchant for sudden rainstorms, she would have worn clothes meant to keep water out. It is rare that she travels this far south and she had not expected weather so different from the surrounding Frostback Mountains. 

Vivienne trails behind, following slowly — _she_ does not need to concern herself with the rain, after all — and enters the tent only once Cassandra has already sat down and removed her soggy boots.

"You look like a drenched cat, my dear," she says, removing her hennin.

Cassandra grunts in response: she can hardly disagree. Cold drops of water run down the back of her neck, making her shiver, and her hair is uncomfortably plastered to her head. She is accustomed to going about her work as usual in the rain, but that does not mean she enjoys it. The rain will turn the tent humid and clammy; her clothes will not be dry by the morning.

Vivienne's hand comes up to her face, drawing Cassandra's attention away from her thoughts. Her thumb strokes along the scar on her cheek. There is something proprietary about the way she places her fingers, as if she has claimed the scar as hers.

"What I mean is," she says, "perhaps you should consider removing your clothes."

 

*

 

It is strange to think of sharing such intimate things with someone, anyone, who is not Regalyan, but she wants — _oh, she wants_. 

A Seeker knows how to lead and how to follow orders. The former cannot be taught until one has mastered the latter. Cassandra does as she is told and pulls her boots off. Tugging at her belt, she loosens the tasset from her hips, removes her shoulder plates and unbuckles her breastplate. It is a nice breastplate, one Cadash had made for her, but it is clearly constructed based on schematics from somewhere where rain is scarce — the inside of the plate bloomed with rust within weeks, despite the care she gave it, and the clothes she wears under it are wet with the rain.

Her breeches are not nearly so wet, only at the knees and the top of her thighs, and she hesitates. 

"You must take care not to catch a cold, Cassandra," Vivienne says, gently reprimanding. "You were a misery on the Storm Coast, as I recall."

Vivienne is not serious. Vivienne is loosening the laces of her breeches.

"Everyone was a misery on the Storm Coast," Cassandra says, fingers brushing Vivienne's as she tries to aid her. "Even you."

"Certainly not. You were feverish; it must have affected your memory."

The breeches are unlaced and Vivienne leans back; there is an expectation. Cassandra would not wish to disappoint. 

"You were not ill," she says, pulling her breeches off. "But you did not like it."

"Of course I didn't _like_ it. I think you'll find I enjoy very few of the abysmal places the Inquisitor frequents."

Vivienne's eyes are on her naked legs, but she does not move. Maybe there is a limit to this and it has been reached. But the remainder of Cassandra's clothes are still wet, so she pulls the two layers of leather and padding over her head, fumbling and failing to do so with any kind of grace, leaving only her shirt still on.

Vivienne shifts, a sigh on her lips. "Is there no end to the layers you wear?"

Vivienne does not wear so much: robes, leggings, corset, and whatever may be underneath. She relies on barriers where Cassandra must trust her armor or else the toughness of her skin. "Protection," Cassandra says.

Reaching out to touch the linen of her shirt, Vivienne purses her lips. "Yes. It certainly is that."

The arms of her shirt are wet, but the rest is not. She would have kept it on if Vivienne was not still giving her that expectant look. Cassandra tugs her shirt off. And then, because she believes with all her heart in thoroughness, she removes her breastband too, leaving herself entirely bare.

Vivienne's gaze roams. 

"You are a work of art, my dear," she says, touching her fingertips to one of the many scars that run down her arm. 

Cassandra's face burns under the scrutiny. More so when Vivienne finds another scar to trace her fingers over, this one running close to her clavicle. "Hardly," she replies. "I am ruined for anything but wielding a sword and shield."

Another scar, one that starts on her hip; Vivienne's fingertips brush over it, lingering on the nearly invisible marks nearby, where her skin stretched as she grew from a child into an adult. "And if you are the one they wish to rise up to sit on the Sunburst Throne?" she asks, and Cassandra shivers under her hand.

"They would be out of their wits. Hats do not suit me."

She had not intended it as a joke — helmets are fine but hats in general truly do not suit her, besides which they itch — but it brings a small smirk to Vivienne's face, corners of her mouth quirking up, briefly. 

"Were you Divine," Vivienne says, fingers moving thoughtfully back and forth across Cassandra's hip, "you need not wear anything you do not wish to. There is nothing worse than being repetitive, and a Divine in armor would certainly be something new."

"The Inquisitor has made no secret in that she favors Leliana in this matter."

"The Inquisitor favors chaos. _That_ has always been apparent. The young always paint the world in black and white."

Cassandra cannot claim to be young any longer, but she is not so sure she disagrees with a world of certainties — the comfortable ease of right and wrong, and nothing in between. 

"Nevertheless," Vivienne continues, "her voice may carry a certain weight but the decision is not in her hands."

Vivienne moves her fingers to a mark on the side of her breast — not a scar, simply a place where her clothing has pinched her skin and left a red indentation — and Cassandra bites down on her lip: an exercise in control. There is a certain look on Vivienne's face, a layer of nonchalance that does not fully cover the self-satisfaction underneath, and Cassandra will not give in so easily. 

"Do you wish to discuss Chantry politics, Vivienne?" Cassandra grits out.

"I _have_ spent the better part of my life in Orlais."

It might be an attempt at humor, but it is not untrue. Cassandra puts a hand on Vivienne's wrist, stilling her fingers on her breast. "Do not play your Game with me," she says, frowning. "I will not win."

There is a pause; Vivienne breathes. "If I promised that, it would be a lie."

A heart is a gentle thing, even Cassandra's, and she is not so sure that Vivienne would take care of it. She is not so sure she cares. They are both what circumstance has made them, and it comes down to this. Vivienne waits, unmoving, and the moment stretches out.

The scales tip. 

"I do not require promises," Cassandra says, exhaling softly. "I despise deception, that is all."

Vivienne studies her, head tilted, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "I have not known any other Seekers of Truth. Are they all as pure of heart as you are, or are you one of a kind?"

"You flatter me," Cassandra mutters.

"I assure you, I have never once had to resort to such desperate means as flattery."

"You twist your words. Say what you mean."

Cassandra's hand is still held loosely around Vivienne's wrist. Reversing their hands' positions, Vivienne clasps her hand in a gentle grip, placing it on her leg. "You wish for honesty," she says. "How refreshing."

It is an invitation, one that feels more intimate than having Vivienne's hand on her naked breast. Shifting closer, Cassandra runs her hand down Vivienne's thigh, down the smooth, embroidered samite of her leggings. She has had her hand on her bare leg now and she remembers how it felt under her fingertips.

Vivienne, in turn, moves her fingers to the scar under Cassandra's ribs, the one she healed in the Emerald Graves, and Cassandra melts into her bedroll. Between her legs, her pulse beats with enthusiastic persistence.

An absurd thought: they have not even kissed.

As if Vivienne can pluck that thought from her mind, she leans forward to amend the situation, lips touching Cassandra's with such delicate lightness that Cassandra finds herself trembling.

Her hand is still clasped over Vivienne's thigh, head full of memories of bare skin. Vivienne adjusts, hovering more fully above her, and Cassandra's other hand comes up to hold onto her side, over her ribs, thumb resting where the firm corset gives in and allows for the soft swell of her breast.

"I was quite studious in my youth," Vivienne says, keeping her voice low, "and for a time, I had an interest in healing magic."

Her fingertips graze a line down from Cassandra's side, to her hip, to the inside of her leg. There is no scar and Vivienne cannot know the invisible memory written there, on her skin, where Regalyan had pressed his hand against her and taken the injury away, long ago.

Vivienne's hand moves up from her thigh, to the apex of her legs, as she lowers her mouth to Cassandra's again. Back arching at the intimate contact, Cassandra gasps into Vivienne's mouth. Vivienne kisses her until she cannot breathe, until she _aches_.

Only then does she pause, breathing against Cassandra's lips, tension noticeable in the muscles in her back, where Cassandra's fingers are placed. 

"My teachers encouraged me to be observant of the physiology of the body," Vivienne continues. She does not stop touching her. "The play of muscles under the skin, the movement of joints — things that might gain one a deeper understanding of how and where to apply magic, if needed. I was, however, not particularly patient in this task."

"Does this story have a happy ending?" Cassandra asks, voice wavering, hips twitching. If Vivienne is attempting to distract her from her words, she is not entirely unsuccessful. 

Vivienne tilts her head, smirking, as if the question amuses her. "It ends with my decision to pursue other magical venues than the healing arts," she says. "I have not reconsidered that choice, so I suppose it is an end as happy as any."

"Go on," Cassandra breathes, referring to the the hand between her legs as well as the story told.

The statement hangs in the air for a few moments, before Vivienne's hand moves from between her legs to cover Cassandra's on her thigh. Her fingers are wet, and Cassandra can think of nothing else.

"I borrowed a knife from the kitchens," Vivienne says, running Cassandra's hand up along her thigh, following the line of the scar, hidden under her leggings, "so that I might practice my healing skills on myself."

Vivienne returns her hand to Cassandra's hip, and lower still. Her robes brush against Cassandra's breasts, and they ache for more, nipples drawn tight and sensitive. Hands clenching on Vivienne's clothes, Cassandra pulls her closer.

"I was too ambitious to settle for waiting, and too confident in my abilities to consider that I might struggle with the task. But my skill, as it were, was not as great as my enthusiasm, and there was rather a lot of blood. I had also not taken into account the effect pain has on one's concentration."

Cassandra cannot remain still, she cannot move. At other times, she took what she needed, unshy about what her body requires — hard and quick, rushed and easy — but this time she is helpless and rendered beyond control. Composure lost, she clutches at Vivienne's leg, rutting against her fingers, only for Vivienne to change the rhythm — slower, featherlight, until Cassandra is utterly, completely left at Vivienne's mercy.

Vivienne hums against her lips, and every slow stroke of her fingers lights a fire.

Anyone could walk past their tent, anyone could hear. Cassandra will not share this with anyone, but she cannot keep her breaths even or silent, and she cannot stop a small, needy sound escaping her mouth. 

It seems an eternity that she hovers on the edge, until at last Vivienne bites down on her lower lip — a reminder to mind her noises — and tips her over. Pleasure blooms from where Vivienne's fingers are pressed against her, and Cassandra arches against her, breathing, stuttering, shaking, and she is not as quiet as she ought to be.

She comes down, delirious and spent, flushed. Perhaps she would be embarrassed if she did not feel so good.

Her hand is still on Vivienne's thigh, and Cassandra strokes her fingers up the path of the scar and down again, repeating the movement after a pause. Body humming, inside her head Vivienne's words spin, turn and twist.

"But you did heal it," she says, reclaiming her breath with only some difficulty. "Had you sent for help, an experienced healer would not have left a scar from a simple cut."

"My teachers would have healed me," Vivienne agrees, calm and collected, "but the punishment for such an action would have been swift, and I was not in the habit of admitting my mistakes, even then. I healed it, however badly. It is not so difficult for a young woman to find other events to blame for bloodstains on her clothes, and the sort of pain that might confine her to bed for a day."

She puts her hand on Cassandra's, sliding it _up_ , pausing under the curve of her hip. There is a sigh on Vivienne's lips, as she shifts. The arched eyebrow posits an unspoken question.

"Yes," Cassandra says, nodding with haste, too many times — the point has been made.

Her leggings are tied together on the side. Pushing her robes aside, Vivienne looses the lacing, making room. She bends to kiss her, slowly, the tip of her tongue teasing. Her hand finds Cassandra's, guiding it to where she wants it. Under layers of clothing, Vivienne is wet and Cassandra is wrecked all over again.

It is unfathomable that Cassandra would have such an effect on her, and yet. She has done nothing, and still, against her fingers is the palpable evidence that Vivienne enjoyed the way Cassandra moved under her hands.

"It was a valuable lesson," Vivienne murmurs against the corner of Cassandra's mouth. "I've found I do not mind wearing it on my skin."

As she speaks, she guides Cassandra's fingers through her slick folds, back and forth, and then — _inside_. 

Breath hitching, Cassandra twitches at feel of it, the warm slide of her fingers, the wet sound. She takes a hold of Vivienne's hip to steady herself, as Vivienne moves against her, fluttering around her fingers.

The clothes are in the way, but Vivienne has shown no interest in removing them. Cassandra will not presume that she will be allowed more, but there are things she finds herself wanting, craving, a rush of wanton images that she ought not let occupy her mind: the intimacy of bared skin, hands on uncovered curves, her mouth on Vivienne's scar, and, perhaps, on other places.

"Vivienne," she starts, and the sentence hangs in the air, unfinished.

"Yes?" she questions, only the slightest hint of breathlessness threatening her composure.

Words are not easy for Cassandra. Where others seem to command them at will, Cassandra struggles to make them fit. There are things she would like to say, but the shape of her thoughts will not translate, not in any of the languages she speaks. 

"Maker," she whispers. It is not what she intended to say, but the only word she can manage.

Vivienne's face is impassive, but Cassandra can feel the tension in her body, the slight tremor in her thighs, the way she clenches around Cassandra's fingers. She cannot tear her eyes away, staring as Vivienne shuts her eyes, lips parting as her breaths turns shallow. Grasping Cassandra's wrist tighter, nails digging into her skin, Vivienne rides the wave of her climax, pulsing around Cassandra's fingers, pressing against the heel of her palm.

Even in this, she is fluid and graceful, absolutely in control. Cassandra would not wish to strip that from her, this hard-won authority, the restraint she wears like a crown. It is so easy for Vivienne to assume that her words will be obeyed — if she likes it that way, Cassandra will bend. If she could, she would be on her knees.

It is over then. 

Vivienne pulls her hand out of her leggings, shifting until there is some distance between them. She lies down on her side, propped up on one elbow, stretching her legs out. It seems quite ridiculous that her boots are still on.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Cassandra?"

That seems like a preposterous question, considering. Cassandra squirms, uncomfortable and tense.

"Ah," Vivienne says, a knowing smirk on her face. "If you require more, you need not hesitate."

Perhaps she would feel embarrassed about being so brazen if watching Vivienne had not ruined her so thoroughly. Her hand is wet with Vivienne's slickness, and when she puts that hand on herself the memory of being inside of her makes her burn. She knows how to bring herself relief with efficiency and speed — there is no reason to linger when there are so many other things that need taking care of — and she does so now.

It is not as good as having Vivienne's hand pressed against her most intimate places, but Cassandra thinks about her own fingers inside Vivienne's wet heat, her face in the throes of pleasure, and her hips come up to meet the movement of her hand. Her other hand travel to her chest, fingers knowing just how to rouse a response from her breast, moving over a taut nipple, and there is nothing more she needs.

It is not until she is done that she realizes that Vivienne is watching with interest. She is already flushed, face hot and burning, but if there is any blood left in her body it makes a quick rush to her cheeks. Vivienne cups her jaw, running her thumb in a circle on her chin, and presses a kiss to the scar on her cheek.

"Your _charms_ , my dear, never cease to amaze me."

Cassandra is fairly certain she is not in possession of anything even remotely resembling 'charms', but she will not argue over semantics while naked.

At some point, the rain stopped without her noticing. Cassandra sits and pulls on her linen shirt, dry except for the sleeves. The sun must be about to set, because the light has grown dim and outside the tent, there is a chorus of chirping from the usual nocturnal birds.

"Thank you," she says, glancing at Vivienne. "For your honesty."

Vivienne settles on her back, hands clasped over her midsection, the corners of her mouth quirking. "It was my pleasure."

 

*

 

The next day brings sun and clear skies. 

Sera and Cadash are both bleary-eyed and unusually quiet, and the number of tiresome puns relating to bears are surprisingly close to zero. Only when the sun touched the sky in the early morning did they return to camp, when Cassandra was already up and preparing for the day. She had not slept much either, but she is accustomed to staying strong and unyielding in the face of little sleep.

It seems the only one who did sleep soundly was Vivienne, who had stayed on her side of the tent, back turned to Cassandra and wearing less than she did while Cassandra was naked. Perhaps that is why she seems to be in such a good mood.

At mid-day, they take a break in a quiet place by the lake.

"My dear Inquisitor," Vivienne says, as they search through the immediate area and ensure it is safe, "I take it from the jar full of small spiders in your pocket that last night's adventure was a success?"

"If I carry them around with me," Cadash replies with a shrug, "eventually my skin must stop crawling at the thought of all those legs. No one is that tenacious, not even me."

Stretching her back, Sera proudly puts her hands on her hips. "Was my idea. So she can go on a romantic evening stroll with—" (at this point, Cadash elbows her in the ribs) "—by, uh, herself. In the moonlight. On the ground with the creepy spiders instead of up in the trees."

"You must inform the healers in Val Royeaux," Vivienne says, "of your revolutionary methods."

The lid of the jar has a sufficient amount of holes to give the spiders air, and enough twigs and leaves to keep them comfortable, but Cassandra is fairly certain they have not thought the plan through to its natural conclusion. "You will have to to feed them," she points out, "or they will die."

"Does that mean I have to open the lid?"

"It's good practice, innit?" Sera puts her fingers on the back of Cadash's neck, tickling her through the short curls of her dark hair. "Maybe tomorrow you can get one out and cuddle all the little legs."

Cadash makes a pained noise, visibly shuddering.

Settling in the shadow under a tree, Cadash leans back against the stem while Sera curls up next to her in a ball, all limbs, covering her eyes with her arm.

The sun is warm, and shielded from the chilling wind, the air is humid and muggy. Vivienne removes her boots, taking great care to fold up her leggings, and sits down on a rock at the water's edge.

"You must be warm, Cassandra," she says. "In your layers."

Her words are unaffected, but they are clearly meant to reference private things, and this close to curious ears, it makes Cassandra shift uncomfortably.

"Someone ought to keep vigilant," she says, "even here. I have no desire to fight gurguts barefoot."

"Sitting down will not keep you from your watch."

Reluctantly, Cassandra does as she is told, sitting down on Vivienne's rock, facing the opposite way, boots firmly on the sand. Cassandra puts her hand between them, on the sun-warm rock. Her fingers twitch, so close to Vivienne's leg. She would hardly have to reach out to graze the fabric of her robes, to trace the line of the scar through her leggings. She maps the memory of it in her mind, like drawing lines between stars in Cadash's astrariums; another constellation, written on the skin.

Sliding off her gauntlets, she flexes her fingers.

Vivienne catches her hand, rubbing at the stiff part of her wrist. It embarrasses her how well those hands affect her, rising memories of the night before, blood rushing up her neck and down her spine. Cassandra spares a glance at Cadash and Sera, dozing under their tree.

"An old fracture," Vivienne remarks, running her thumb across the side of her wrist, where it aches sometimes.

"More than I care to count."

An eyebrow arched. Vivienne does not ask, she simply expects. It seems from the way she holds her wrist, studying it, that she would like to take her apart and examine every smallest piece until every one of them is hers. Cassandra should not want such things. The Maker has forged her into a sword and she does not wish to be disassembled. 

It is not in Vivienne's nature to be satisfied with half-measures. 

It is a thing they have in common.

Under the tree, Cadash start to snore. Those walks in the moonlight will not come to pass and it will not be the fault of spiders. The dragonfly charm that she keeps in her pocket and fiddles with when she thinks no one sees will stay put. The world rests on her shoulders. Choosing to give in to fear in other areas, where she has a choice in the matter, is only natural.

She is young, and the Inquisition was never a thing of her own choosing. Cassandra cannot blame either of those things. 

Vivienne's eyes are on her hand, fingers tracing the lines around the base of her thumb, the invisible ache running down her wrist. Cassandra studies her profile; the curve of her forehead, the tip of her nose, lips slightly pursed. Her fingers on her wrist: an unspoken question.

"You may ask," Cassandra says, "if you are curious."


End file.
